No Milk Today
by Jayalalita
Summary: The journal of a woman living on Spinner's End, where there is no magic, there is no wonder, but that which its residents make for themselves.
1. Sun

**Sun.**

The sun came out for a while today, and I walked out to stand by the water for a spell, and pretend the river was a pretty one, and the bank a grassy one, and the sun a constant one, and the place somewhere unnamed, and far away.

The river may be brown and mucky, and have a smell, and be unable to sustain life above the basest slime, but if I squint tightly and tilt my head just so, I can still play this make-believe, as I did as a little girl, and all that's left is the sparkles of sunlight on the water, and my dream can make the river blue and pure and teeming with fish and irrigating an atmosphere of adventure.

Though even as a girl I had the sense to know adventure for someone like me was limited to reading books and squinting at a dirty river. So now that I'm grown, I visit the library weekly, and try to catch a moment to trick the old river into sparkling on a sunny day. When I remember that it can sparkle, anyway. It's one of those things that becomes easier to forget, which must say something about how adventurous an adult I have come to be.


	2. Youth

**Youth.**

I am beginning to grow concerned that I am older than I think I am. Twenty six is not so old in the scheme of things, but I've reached it less eventfully than I would have liked. Too much of me still feels like a stunted teenager, plagued with repressed and retarded emotions, yearnings, and understanding. I still feel more or less like a silly little fool, and suspect that those who put on that they have "wised up" into sensible, mature adults are faking it.

I worry though, because I can really feel my tea. As in, it wakes me up, where I once I drank it just as a beverage. I didn't care for the stuff as a child- too bitter, unless I added a ridiculous amount of sugar- but I took up drinking it in my early teens as a piddly form of pretence (to accompany my books and inflating vocabulary and fancied literary superiority). I would have taken to smoking a pipe and growing a beard to stroke if I could have, but a cup (or mug, rather, as that was the dish available) of tea alongside my books on my little desk in my room made the act seem more complete, a nice prop. But now I need that tea, books or not, and slog through the afternoon without a a few cups throughout the day. The only caffeine that used to affect me was that in coffee, which made me feel ill and dizzy. Now I'm old enough I need stimulation.

Poor choice of words. Or word, rather.

In this age of liberated womanhood, the term 'spinster' is not only obsolete, but politically incorrect, socially insensitive, and economically irrelevant. After all, a woman may marry at any age she chooses, or remain thus unfettered, or keep a mate without legal connection, or have many loves, or have none at all, and define her life with something other than sex, children, servitude, morality, and keeping house. But I am a classic spinster, nonetheless. It might still be remedied, of course, not that it's my primary goal (have I a primary goal?), but I don't see that the odds are in my favour.

Pertaining to life in general, I don't suppose the odds are in my favour. Quality (though my complaints are silly, childish, spoilt, when compared to the world at large) nor longevity wise. My mother died of cancer ten years ago, and my father is dying of it now. My elder brother and sister are gone, living normal, moderately successful lives, with normal, moderately successful jobs and families. And I am the last little pig left, the one with no other prospects but to nurse our father (the house _is_ made of brick, though, if that counts for anything for the youngest pig). He will be gone soon (sounds insensitive, I know, but I've had a lot of sensitivity wrung out of me) leaving behind as his legacy a house on Spinner's End that will go down with the rest of the block anyday, a few chipped and tea-stained mugs, a mattress with nothing hidden under it, and ill-fortuned genetics on both ends for his descendants to contend with. Not even any family photos- those were all burned by Father after one of those great teeth-clenchers between he and my brother some years ago.

I didn't care for the bitter taste of tea as a child because all of us in our house already drank from a bitter enough cup. See? Another charmingly adolescent sentiment. Nothing that absurd would occur to a rational, seriously occupied adult mind.

Oh, and I currently work in a fish-and-chip shop. Who would want to wed and bed someone who smells perpetually of grease and potatoes?


	3. Church

**Church.**

Prayer for me is looking out a window. There's not much of a scenic view through any of ours, but there's nothing that calms me quite like standing by the kitchen window, waiting for the kettle to boil, concentrating on a weed growing in a patch of dirt, or, fresh-brewed cup in hand, idly gazing through the glass in the parlour, waiting for a car or pedestrian to pass. There isn't much to see: my options are the yard or the street, and both are drab and quiet. There is little traffic on Spinner's End, and still fewer remaining residents, so I haven't many people to look at from home, but it's a blessing, really. Better to live on a nearly abandoned dead-end than amongst a teeming mass of unpleasant neighbours. I like the stillness of the pavement, and watching its gradual deterioration over the years, trying to recall to memory its state of decrepitude at various points in my life. How big was that hole when I was ten? Was that crack there when I lost my virginity? How long has that window been busted? Two years? It's a form of long-term meditation.

I look out a window all day at work, when business is at a lull, waiting on hold to wrap up some fried delight for the next customer. I love those moments when I can zone out and think about nothing in particular. Makes standing around on my feet more tolerable. Centring.

And then there's the cathedral of the library, where I often take vigil at my favourite seat by the window that looks out on the crooked tree, and I lift my head from my book every so often to look out, even though there is nothing new to look upon.

And once in a while, my prayers are answered, because it really is a silent, secret prayer, watching nothing, thinking nothing, praying, hoping, begging for _something. _And once in a great while, he will pass by, my most secret, quiet prayer, and I wake up with a revelatory POP! in the few seconds he is in my periphery, and then he is gone, leaving me as light-headed and filled with confused, unsatiated bliss as a devoted worshipper who's had a fleeting knowledge of the presence of God before them. That's rather blasphemous, but it's not as if I've seen much evidence of God, whereas I actually HAVE seen this man.

He isn't especially God-like, except in that his presence in my life has been simultaneously consistent and rare. And though he is near, he is yet a stranger to me.

He's lived here as far back as I can remember, the last house on Spinner's End, staying here as the rest of the neighbourhood moves out, staying here as the empty houses fall to shambles, staying and walking the same street with the same spinster watching him pass for a couple of decades. When I was little I would sometimes see him in the summer, and I wanted to play with him, even though he was older, and quiet, and unpopular with the other children. But those were probably the exact reasons- he wasn't one of the typical dumb bully types with whom I shared a mutual dislike. But I was shy then, and grew up getting shyer all the time, and by the time I was a teenager it seemed I saw him even less often, but I thought of him more than ever, as a hormonal girl will with any available male candidate, and became conscious of his being a man. When he did happen by, a tall, dark streak moving briskly along the pavement, I planted one of those plentiful, readily sown seeds of a crush for him, and it sprouted and grew slowly, where so many others had blossomed and died away. Such a dense and delicate and wild bloom- whenever I see a patch of wild carrot, I think of picking a few stalks and leaving them on his doorstep, but he would probably brush them aside as rubbish, or get an uneasy feeling over who might be leaving weeds at his door.

A sacred offering to a hidden devotion, laid at the feet of the dwelling place, the shrine, to someone, no one.

What silly prayers. Just to see a stranger. I can't even imagine what his name might be, and we've been neighbours all my life. He could be called Fred. He could be called Enrico. I've asked him a million times in my head. Sometimes he answers, but usually I can't quite hear his response. Deaf when it counts. Deaf in dreams.


	4. Blossom

**Blossom.**

What kind of person can develop an easy fixation that spans years on a stranger without once introducing oneself to that person? A total loser, you might say? I won't deny it. But there are worse things than being so socially inept that you remain sensitive to the finer points of appreciating casual obsession. I have slept with only two people, but I have had countless one-sided sweethearts, an eternity's worth of lifetimes in the glances of passing strangers.

I'm a stranger myself- who else would I love?

I have no friends to speak of; I walk to work and walk home, with the library and the market as the only detours in my path. I look after my father, who mostly just wants to be left to his telly when he's had his meals and medication, and the rest of my family have better things to do than step backwards to the old house on Spinner's End. I've never had a boyfriend who lasted over six months, and most of the few relationships (or vaguely relationship-like things) I have had were considerably shorter than that. The sort of man I am most attractive to is married, lies about being married because he wants to screw me, and once he learns I don't live alone and he can't come to MY house to screw me, reveals he's married and breaks it off with the excuse that of course he can't take me to his own home for a fuck where his wife is scrubbing the sinks.

A stranger has more potential, i.e., that which I imagine for him. I don't push my luck- I keep my dreams conservative and within the bounds of realistic expectation, no fortunes or royal lines or mystical sex powers.

Even the most common, unremarkable man is an orchid to be cherished, given the proper soil to grow in.

Mine is a hidden garden, cultivated behind tranquil walls undisturbed by weeds and the rampage of wind and weather. Solitary and contained. The blooms are modest, but lovingly cared for. Simple, earthly pleasure, tending my plot of ethereal soil.

Of late I am lingering in an older, well-trod area of my internal garden, with its own little bench installed for further enjoyment of the foliage, because the other the day my fellow in black passed by the window of the shop.

I don't see him often this time of year. In the summer months I may see him a few times, out for a rushed jaunt, taking a harried stroll in the fine air, but most of the year his house is dark and empty. Perhaps it's his holiday home, ahahahahaha, poor bugger. Christmas is coming up. Maybe he's back home for the quaint, cosy charm of tenement housing.

Seeing him in December is warming, though. I associate him with the sunny season, and look forward to summer, because I anticipate further sightings of the rare bloom. He's such a dour thing, I imagine he wouldn't care to know some woman compares him to a warm breeze in the confines of her addled brain.

He shouldn't be out in all that cold and drear and wet and ice. He should let me keep him in the safe, balmy atmosphere of my conservatory. I'd prune him daily, oh my.


	5. Happiness

**Happiness.**

When you're poor, and your life is mostly uneventful except for when something lousy happens, you can derive a lot of joy from some pathetic things.

Today, the man in black came into my fish-and-chip shop, and walked up to me, and spoke to me, and reached his hands to me, and I gave him fish and chips.

Pure, unadulterated bliss.

The stars have never been aligned for us to interact face to face in the past, with scarcity on his part and being a natural loner on mine, but I saw him pass only a matter of days ago, and thought on him, and lo, he comes to me.

And I was able to grant his wish for fish and chips, oh, Lord above, you are kind to a sad little girl.

It was a rush, I was a mess of nerves, but after the fact, I can relish the act of picking the encounter apart in my mind, piece by piece.

Some people commit to memory perfect days of sun and youth and laughter. Those elements haven't done much coinciding for me, so I have to settle for faking the feeling of a sunbeam with a fluorescent light illuminating the passage of a familiar, frowning face walking up to my counter.

I don't suppose he's the typical image of a handsome man, but I never thought much of most handsome men anyway. Those of a higher class are dull, clean, symmetrical beings, like a fussily kept house, and those closer to my level are usually arses with indistinct, unextraordinary faces, like bits of moulded-about dough. But the features on this fellow are such extremes, it makes him radiant, even if he isn't exactly beautiful. Such very black hair and pit-black eyes, contrasted with such pale, thin skin. His voice and his eyes- vague, but piercing. Thin line of a brow, thin line of a mouth, harsh jaw and cheek, prominent nose. Long, thin, frame, steady gait, unfriendly bearing. That doesn't deter me- I'm not friendly, either.

He seemed to barely notice me, even as I stuttered over his money and tried my pitiful best to make meaningful eye contact before the exchange was over. I stretched my guts, and forced my hand to brush his as I passed his change, but it was so fast, a quarter of a second, and I cannot make my mind remember what parts of me touched what parts of him, fingers, palms, patches of skin.

And when he had his order, I made sure to snort, "And have a Merry Christmas!" with all the dumb sincerity I've never thought to expend on that phrase before.

He nodded compulsorily and left me. Probably back to his house to eat. I prayed to any food-oriented gods who might be listening to keep his food warm til he got there. The man seems cranky enough; he doesn't deserve soggy fish.

My next invocation of those food-gods was to thank them for my employment at this fish-and-chip shop, and the gift of having this fellow walk into the establishment.

And at home, I sat in the parlour with only the small lamp on, and looked out the window for a long, quiet time, and beseeched the gods again, any gods, that he might regularly crave fish and chips during my working hours.

I begin to see why faith is a comfort to believers.


	6. Alone

**Alone.**

My rational side says no significant bonds can be formed between people who are social strangers, that to believe one has a connection with an unnamed anybody is superficial or consequential at best, and foolish self delusion at worst.

But my more sensitive side says no, you don't have to be intimately socially acquainted with a person to recognise something within them, something of yourself that you share, or something that makes them uniquely _them_, some glimmer of soul or spirit or psyche or self or whatever you want to call it that doesn't require years of chit chat to uncover.

If that wasn't possible, I would be the loneliest person on earth, and it would be unbearable.

I remember one chilly, miserable day when I was fifteen and my mother was sick, and we all knew it wouldn't be much longer, and my father and brother were having a row, not an especially big one, but I wasn't in the mood to ignore it, so I stepped outside to get away, take a walk, anything. The fellow down the road was out there, standing by the water, alone as always, but somehow _more_ alone. I tried to approach inconspicuously, and paused at a distance behind him, hoping he wouldn't notice my watching his profile, his motionless shoulders, the breeze about his hair, but I don't think anything I could have done, or how close I might have stood, would have broken his gaze on the water. In that moment I think I loved him more than anything I had ever loved before, because here was someone with a trouble or a grief or a sorrow or a burden that I could see rivalled mine, not only in intensity, but sheer purity and grace- but no, those words are wrong- strong, but too pretty, not jagged enough around the edges like what I saw in him.

I nearly jumped, so mesmerised was I by his stillness, when he broke his reverie to turn his head upstream, maybe to look at or contemplate something in that direction, maybe to fight the flow of the river, willing his thoughts to struggle against the current.

The minutes passed slowly, but he moved away eventually, and his face caught mine as he turned, and I recognised in his expression the stone-cold hardness of perfectly, rigidly controlled pain, composed into a flat, unreadable presentation for the world.

Maybe he saw some of it in me, too, in the moment he allowed our eyes to connect, that half a second longer than was necessary.

Maybe I'm a fool or maybe I'm sick and should get some help or try to be more normal. Maybe I'm all alone.

Maybe I'm not. Maybe no one is.


	7. Golden Mirror

**Golden Mirror.**

This hasn't happened.

...

MYSTERY MAN: -quietly perusing a volume in the non-fiction stacks-

DEIRDRE: -rounds corner, sees MYSTERY MAN, stumbles and stubs toe despite sensible shoes, tries to smooth stride-

MYSTERY MAN: -doesn't notice-

DEIRDRE: -attempts to glide down aisle, decides on different tactic and switches glide to strut, glide and strut combine into a spastic waddle-

MYSTERY MAN: -still engrossed in tome-

DEIRDRE: -stops at a polite distance from MYSTERY MAN, takes an intense interest in books on shelf in front of her, casts the sides of her eyes to try and see what MYSTERY MAN is reading and assess his overall demeanour-

MYSTERY MAN: -turns page-

DEIRDRE: -selects semi-random volume that looks half-way intelligent and impressive enough to be caught with, reads first sentence in the introduction with a discerning expression, puckers face in silent, disapproving scoff, returns offensive book to shelf with haughty disdain-

MYSTERY MAN: - turns shoulder slightly more inward and away from fellow patron-

DEIRDRE: -notices the barely perceptible gesture, scours brain for a friendly word to unleash upon the situation-

MYSTERY MAN: -blinks-

DEIRDRE: -takes another book, fumbles and drops it-

MYSTERY MAN: -looks up reflexively at strange woman's flailing arms and book tossing-

DEIRDRE: -swiftly stooping, staring, stuttering- I'm sorry! Clumsy!

MYSTERY MAN: ... -blinks-

DEIRDRE: -picks up one book as if it were ten- Heh, heh. -drops knapsack, looks down at it in utter humiliation-

MYSTERY MAN: -is ill-mannered, even in a daydream, and doesn't offer assistance to a lady-

DEIRDRE: -collects self and other assorted objects, stands heavily, like getting out of a pool- Heh, heh. Well, that disrupted everyone's business at the library today, did it not? They ought not allow mad book-droppers like me in here!

MYSTERY MAN: -smiles wryly, or something vaguely smile-shaped, with corners of mouth gouging into cheeks in disinterested irritation-

DEIRDRE: -thinks to self, "Hm, the romantic scenarios I imagine for myself are rather discouraging..."-

MYSTERY MAN: -walks away, mysteriously-

...

Let us try again, shall we?

...

DEIRDRE: -walking along pavement, plucking mental fluffs of wool, spots MYSTERY MAN turning corner ahead of her-

MYSTERY MAN: -swift and cool about his business-

DEIRDRE: -combines a gasp and a squeak into funny little hiccup, trips over crack in the cement, falls onto hands, scraping them-

MYSTERY MAN: -approaches as dutiful concerned citizen- Are you all right?

DEIRDRE: -jaw unsure whether to clench in pain or drop in surprise, struggles to form words- Oo-ah, yes, yes, thank you, just a little tumble, take them all the time! Heh! Heh!

MYSTERY MAN: Here, let me help you up. -offers long, graceful hand, like that of a particularly masculine angel-

DEIRDRE: -accepts grasp, is lifted from ground as lightly as a plucked dandelion-

MYSTERY MAN: There, now. Oh, you're bleeding. We must get you cleaned up.

DEIRDRE: -blushes- I'm-I'm fine, it's nothing...

MYSTERY MAN: No, my dear, we wouldn't want you getting an infection. -leers- How about we take these little hands back to my place to apply something soothing, and see about giving you a distraction from the sting? -purses mouth and squints obscenely-

DEIRDRE: -pupils dilate, bites lower lip-

MYSTERY MAN: Here, let me kiss it and make it better...

...

Stuff and nonsense! But isn't that what the world's made of?

...

MYSTERY MAN: -sitting on park bench, reading something brilliant-

DEIRDRE: -having a stroll, notices neighbour, walks to his bench and sits beside him- What you reading?

MYSTERY MAN: "-insert brilliant title-."

DEIRDRE: Hmm, heard of it, never read it. Any good?

MYSTERY MAN: -cocks head in half shrug- Fairly.

DEIRDRE: You know, I have seen you about before, and wondered what you liked to read, and here you are reading, and now I know! Or at least the one book, anyway.

MYSTERY MAN: -interest piqued- Are you a reader, then?

DEIRDRE: Oh, yes. I haven't much tolerance for television. Novels are my television. Just as time consuming, but more enlivening for the imagination. -smiles, and means it-

MYSTERY MAN: -smiles back, and means it-

DEIRDRE: -continues smiling, looking at MYSTERY MAN in companionable silence-

MYSTERY MAN: -continues the easy silence, smile softening, gaze intensifying-

DEIRDRE: -eyes twinkling, heart light but sure, sighs, lowers head upon MYSTERY MAN's shoulder in gesture as natural as two horses gently greeting one another on a field-

MYSTERY MAN: -words unneeded, places hand upon DEIRDRE's head, strokes hair, shares breath-

...

Or, more likely:

DEIRDRE: -dies alone in hospital-

MYSTERY MAN: -dies alone in bed-

...

Damn it. Damn it all.


	8. To Live Without, Is Death

**To Live Without, Is Death.**

I think the last fellow I went out with didn't call back because my musical preferences are more appropriate for my parents or siblings. Which makes sense, considering most of the albums I listen to belonged to my mother or my older sister. I just haven't the patience or the interest to keep up with the latest hits. If listening to sugary pop music past its prime makes me unfit for social consumption, then I don't mind going stale alone with my scratchy LPs. It isn't worth it to me to put up needless exertion on proving myself through personal taste.

It's nearly a month into the new year, and over seven months since my last date with a man. And I didn't even get a kiss out of the bargain. Not a peck on the cheek. Not a _handshake_. A polite backing away and scurrying to safety. Perhaps he didn't like it when, in one of the many awkward silences as we sat across from one another, I reached over the table and stroked the tuft of wispy hair growing on his chin and said, "Much softer than a billy goat's..."

I am not one to count constant sexual activity as a necessity in life (I'd be a pauper by my own accounting if that were the case), but a person wants an amount of affection. If I felt the need to have a more regular roll in the hay, I don't doubt it could be had, with the right sort of effort and lowering of standards in certain situations. I am more concerned with _quality _over quantity. It isn't that I am so very picky, rather that I ask that unreasonable demands on how I should alter my character be kept to a minimum.

I don't like being told I ought to change my hair, or make myself up with cosmetics, or pluck this and preen that, even that my figure could do with re-arranging (I've heard a colourful variety of oft-contradictory remarks, including: too tall, "not as tall as I like", too lean, too plump, "not dainty enough", odd bone structure, "not very fit", "lumps in wrong places", and the catch-all: "plain"), but I can understand physical criticisms; I expect such from men, it's what they're wired to think of, and I can shrug even the nastiest comment off as ordinary human pettiness.

What bothers me is when I am shot down when trying to be myself, trying to be personable, trying to be affectionate, trying to be natural or endearing in one form or another. Things can be going fine if I am quiet and nod sweetly as a fellow runs his mouth, but let me say something he finds slightly off-colour, and it's like someone threw a tonne of bricks in the road. Sometimes they want me to be more conversational, urge me to speak more, and if I do force out some words, they aren't what they want to hear, and if I still don't prattle on enough they think I am an idiot or dislike them or that I'm frigid.

It's worse when things manage to progress to a more intimate level, and I loosen up, and my sweet nothings cause their skin to crawl, in the beetle-on-the-arm rather than the, "Oh yes, this is most enjoyable" way. I read too many novels and have too many hazy, perfumed daydreams, so when I have the chance to indulge in the multitudinous arts of love-making, I go right for the flowery language and/or over-enthusiastic grappling. I have not found the man who truly appreciates my methods of courtship, usually acted out with bashfulness predominating over initial communication, and after the first kiss is in on his part, my unleashing a massive pounce on the frame, taking firm hold of the shoulders and violently extolling his attractive features, punctuating my hungry speech with nibbling kisses, nudges of the cheek, and love-bites to the face and neck. I suppose if a man has assumed he's caught a cold fish, it is jarring for it to turn into a writhing shark in his arms.

On the outside, I appear to be a shy, unassuming, probably repressed little biddy, but inside I've a nymphomaniacal heart and a psychopathic sex drive. I'll fall in love with anyone, and then want to devour them with my eyes and mouth, to crush them into me and suck the flesh, the bone, the marrow of their souls so they _know_ beyond a shadow of a doubt how complete, how terrible my love is. Just don't tell me to stop being so weird, or I'll go cold like a potato dropped in a corner.

Or that's how crazy I must seem to most suitors, because something isn't working. Am I that crazy? Would I care to be otherwise?

Would I have better success if I reversed my hot and cold moods, like other girls? Come on hot, and when it heats up, cool it down, applying suitable pressure when the time calls for it, holding off when it'll drive them wild with desire. I don't know how other girls do it. Do normal people fumble and fondle about until something happens, or is it a precise game with each player making calculated moves? I'm clumsy in the wrong places and deliberate at the wrong times. My flirtatious wiles, appearance and eyelashes and hair-twisting and giggling and chatting, are unpractised, whereas I have invested all my consideration in the parts where all the artifice is meant to fall away into thoughtless groping into an animal conclusion.

But those parts _should_ be given due consideration and deliberation, because once they've been established between the two of you, you can go further, and further, deeper, and deeper.

Maybe most men aren't looking for further and further. Maybe when I try to spelunk in their souls, though it is intended with love and tenderness and appreciation, they'd rather I kept to the grassy lawn outside, where the rolling about is easy and meaningless.

You'd think more men would have egos that would love being stroked (as well as other things) by so willing, and so thorough, an artisan. I _want_ to make a common man a prince; not by changing him, but loving him utterly _as he is_. Do people want to be loved some other way, loved with boundaries and stipulations and petty games? It frustrates me how many lovable men there are out there who won't let me _simply love them_.

My imagination is fertile, and seeds to sow within it plentiful, but how it saddens me that none will reap the harvest.


	9. Fortune

**Fortune.**

Is it bad that there is no other employment I would rather be pursuing? I've had a number of miserable jobs, but I actually somewhat enjoy the f-&-c, though it defies common logic that I should. I like working with food- preparing it, providing it, seeing the eager, expectant look that people have when they're waiting for their order. The shop isn't too busy, and the product is simple and uniform in preparation, so I can coast through the day without much bother. It's a short walk from home to work, I need no education, no ambition, and a minimum of mental and physical effort is required to excel. No one hassles me and I can think my own thoughts over the familiar popping and sizzling of hot oil. Why should I seek to burden myself with making more of my life?

As as small girl, I wanted to be a film director. As an older girl, I wanted to be a writer. As a woman, I just want to be left alone. How many professions would enable such ease of internal privacy?

I would have made a poor writer, in any case. I can go for months without recording a few paragraphs in a journal- how would I ever manage to write a whole novel? Better that the images of my mind be contained there, with only the occasional flip of the curtain revealing what's onstage. And here are fragments, slivers of time, so I might remember.

I have no further career or creative aspirations, but I do want wealth. Not in money, obviously, or I'd be out selling small plastic bags of naughty stuff, or looking for a rich old man to marry, or scrimping and saving for university (note how I list that option last). The wealth I want is easily acquired, and scattered about for any beggar to scoop up where he will. I want a wealth of observation. Not of grand things- I'll leave the obvious splendours to obvious minds- but of simple, everyday things.

I enjoy each time I crack an egg and watch it bubble in hot butter. I wait in excited anticipation for the high, screaming music of the kettle's whistling boil. I look at my bookshelf as I lay in bed and am calmed by the rows of still, patient books. I let the windows get quite dirty, so I can become familiar with the streaks of grime, and when I clean them, the glass is like light caught and solidified in crystal. I make friends with spiders in the kitchen. I fall in love with the backs of mens' heads in queue at the market. I let myself shed a tear when I'm sad, so that the effect of looking through a liquid prism can distract me from my worry.

There is so much I have, but I want more. I want to collect heartbeats and fluttering eyelashes and dark glances and all the corners of a face and body. I want a pulse to know as well as my own, and how it can be sped and slowed by my ministrations. I want to coax unshed tears to soak into my skin, unexpressed desires to be realised, unconscious tension to be released. I want someone to melt with my warmth. My heart is golden, solid, waiting, a chalice to collect love, a chalice which shines as it is filled.

I'd love to read the rejection letters I would receive with writing like that. Yes, selling fried fish for the foreseeable future is certainly the correct career path for me.


	10. Stars

**Stars.**

Spring was uneventful. Three words sum it up. And then it started to be summer. I like the protective bulk of wearing a jumper, but it's nice when the weather is warm enough that my bones don't creak.

I took a walk last week. There is normally little enough to report in that, thus my negligence in journal-keeping. It was twilight, and the air outside was hazy and dim. I was in one of those hopefully hopeless, or hopelessly hopeful, moods where nothing and everything are simultaneously possible, and maybe the moment will fade into blunted normalcy, or maybe something will happen. So I went for a walk.

The street was quieter than usual, sound muffled in the murk, and the crunch of my step seemed muted. I looked at the surrounding brick and graffiti impassively, and occasionally sighed with the vague listlessness that is common in early summer evenings. I didn't set out with a destination in mind, but the unspoken motive for the stroll was predictable. I looked into each window I passed on Spinner's End, though most have been dark for years, and saw a light at the end of the line before I reached the window the sly part of me had tricked me into seeking out.

I didn't peer right in like some windowsill-trawling lunatic out for voyeuristic jollies (crazy people always defend their actions), but I snatched enough of a quick, guilty glimpse to see that the curtains were drawn tight, but a light was on, and someone was home.

I was slow in walking home, making like the air had thickened. I looked at the tiny flecks of silver trying to be seen in the sky as it darkened, and thought on what to do.

I contemplated leaving him a letter. What would I say? How would I introduce myself? How would I come across as anything but a disturbance to society and private life? This is why I've not written him before. Oh, I have considered it, many a time. But how does one say, "Hello, you don't know me, and I don't know you, but I would like to, and... hello"? That's not what people say, or not anyone I've ever met, anyway.

I lay awake for a long time that night, and came to a resolution. A good, solid one that I swore to myself I would _have_ to hold to, unlike the flimsy promises I've made to myself which dissolve as easily as sugar in hot water. The resolution was this: if I see him again, anywhere, walking down the street or coming in my shop or sitting in a cafe with a paper, I must approach and, at the least, say hello, and if circumstances allow, say something more than hello.

I have quietly had enough. I am ready to tear down and demolish whole structures, walls, boundaries in myself, with a soft, gently crumpling collapse.


	11. Natural Disaster

**Natural Disaster.**

MY RESOLUTION STILL HOLDS.

It wasn't my fault the shop was busy with summer holiday-makers and laze-abouts and I was relegated to frying up mounds of flaky white garbage when in walked my resolution. Customers were being processed as efficiently as possible and I could not abandon my task to fly to the counter and halloo at some man I fancy. I was so angry I stomped on a stray chip, concentrating my wrath on its helpless potato form between floor and foot.

I need my pay packet more than a missed opportunity. My chance will come, and I won't be wearing an apron spattered with fat and batter when it does.


	12. Leap of Faith

**Leap of Faith.**

I said hello, and I said something more than hello.

It was a sluggish time of mid-afternoon, and I was working the counter at the shop, sucking at my teeth for phantom remnants of lunch while making busywork with replenishing and straightening stacks of foam boxes. The bell tinkled, I looked up, and my head went light and black sun-spots blinded me in the second it took me to recognise the customer. With about half a second's recovery time, I was able to smile and prepare myself to take an order, and then he was there, looking at my face and speaking to it.

Transaction of funds complete, and behind me the splash of potato slices hitting oil, I say to him, "You live round on Spinner's End, don't you?"

You can see this brings him more into the moment than he had been. The squint of suspicion is so quick and slight as to be almost imperceptible, but I caught it, being on the lookout for any hint of disgust or rejection, or acceptance. "Yes," he says.

"I see you walking sometimes," is my brilliant intro. "I live a few houses down." Smile, to assure him I am a friend, not a nosy nancy, lots of teeth.

"Hm," with a nod. I wouldn't know what to say either, if I was him. But he is appraising me as I titter; I can tell, because I've done enough appraising in my time.

"Perhaps," and now I'm feeling quite wild and bold indeed, "I'll see you around sometime." More teeth, and I strain to keep them from chattering. "Have a chat or something."

My mouth closes and I bite my lips in that stupid, expectant way I can't help, and his eyes widen ever, ever so slightly, and his head turns ever, ever so slightly to one side, and he says, "Perhaps." I smile with all my face except the teeth, making my eyes crinkle up like a jolly fat Santa, because who could be less offensive than Santa, and then his order is ready, and as I hand it over I say, "I hope so!" in all earnestness, because I can't stop myself.

And he grants me a flick of a smile from one corner of the mouth before walking away. With all my analysis, I cannot be sure if the smile was sarcastic, or bemused, or politely meaningless, or maybe even friendly. But I feel I earned it, insubstantial bon-bon that it is.

Ought I to make a new resolution after this little triumph? I will think on it. My constitution needs a chance to settle before I decide to run off and storm his house with a tray of baked goods and a flimsy top that can be easily ripped away as I begin sensually feeding him cakes. Hm. Perhaps I ought to resolve to ask what sort of cake he likes...


	13. Viridian

**Viridian.**

Well.

That was interesting.

So, I'd taken to sitting on the kerb out front of the house some afternoons, when it was quiet and a bit cooler. I will say it was to enjoy the air, but air can be taken anywhere, and it's usually best to stroll further off if one wants a cool spot to breathe. But strolling elsewhere was not what I had in mind, or not by myself, at least.

An onlooker might have thought I was up to something, with the way I would loiter in one spot for no apparent reason several days of the week, turning my head to look down either end of the pavement every few moments. I'm not really a suspicious looking sort, though, seeing as I've never gotten up to trouble in my life, and wouldn't know how to if I wanted. It wasn't a shady connection I was hoping to make, or not shady in the legal sense.

I didn't really let myself _expect_ to catch a black figure stepping out of a door and onto the walk in my direction; I kept it to a strictly unexpected and minimally indulged hope. But as I sat there late this afternoon, sighing to myself in the dully warm, peachy-gold twilight haze, my eyes making the rounds this way and that in case anything of note happened upon the scene, with another turn, and a glance, and... I tell you, dear diary, a single move would have found me separated from my skin, but I contained my panic, and didn't budge a muscle. I checked my breathing, sedated my pulse, and waited till he was close.

"Hey," I said when he was near enough to hear, as if my sitting there and him just happening along was the most ordinary thing in the world. "How goes it?" What a thing to say.

He stiffened at the acknowledgement, and I realised he was a trifle further from me than a normal person would begin greeting another, and I had unconsciously spoken up to compensate for the distance. I felt like a lump of thick, idiotic dough. His stride wasn't broken though, and he came forward a touch and stopped near to where I had planted myself. He's quite tall when one is sitting low and looking up at him, and I was less concerned with feeling foolish as I appreciated his imposing stature looming above me.

"Well," he said, looking down at me, not smiling, but I'd say the frown was a neutral one.

I smiled for him and said, "That's good to hear!" with an exclamation point, though my exclamation points in speech tend to be more subdued in sound than their intent. "Just having a sit, taking the air!"

He crossed his arms. A perfectly natural posture when standing in one spot.

I didn't give him much time to speak, or not speak, and said, "Off on a stroll? Or tending to some errands?" I hate being nosy, and I know it's none of my business what he's up to, and I don't care for it when strangers get too inquisitive with me, but I had to, _had to_, say something, and normal-people chit chat was what blurted out.

"Taking the air, as it were," he responded. My God.

I gave an abbreviated, oddly guttural little laugh, and wobbled my head from side to side like I was thinking about what he just said, and asked, brazen minx that I am, "Might I join you?"

He shrugged, apparently unperturbed, and said, "If you wish."

I wrestled my way upright like an eager puppy dog and tried to discreetly dust off my behind. I stood by him. It's nice standing by a fellow.

"I'm Deirdre," says the happy pup. "We've never been properly introduced, I don't believe?" says the social butterfly. Raw-ther.

"Severus," like he's not thrilled to divulge it. Good gravy, I thought, what an exotic fish you are.

"Good to meet you!" I rolled on the heel a bit and, "Shall we walk on?"

There's that strain of walking alongside someone, when you're a person who seldom walks alongside anyone. He had a long stride, but I believe he checked it for my sake. I was quick to keep up for his. I caught myself from sucking on my lips and making POP! noises out of lack of things to say. Or inability to say the things I'd like. He wasn't talkative, nor should he be expected to be, his path being accosted by random madwomen.

My breathing felt loud. Like a snuffling pig who thinks there may be the slim chance of a truffle lying nearby. "You've lived here quite some time, haven't you?" I broke in after some distance.

"Yes." Like a stone in a pool.

"I remember seeing you about since I was a child. I've lived here all my life. Don't know when I might live anywhere else." A watery chuckle.

A few more silent paces. The street looked changed. Everything was more familiar and totally foreign at once, like I was returning from a very long visit elsewhere, and nothing was the same as I'd last seen it.

"Do you live alone?" I asked. A rude question, but rudeness is the quickest path to intimacy.

"Yes."

"I live with my father," I volunteered. We were reaching a busier part of town. "What direction would you care to take?"

"Left. The park, if that suits."

"Oh, certainly," and it certainly did. I was hoping for the park, and wanted to suggest it, but avoided trying to steer him about. I'm such a pushover, born and bred.

There didn't seem to be anyone else taking a brisk, healthy stroll through the park, and there was a lovely crop of weeds in bloom. I like a place full of weeds. Weeds mean peace. Green and untouched.

"I love this park," I said. "It's not extravagant," which was an understatement, "but it's close-by, and I've come here all my life." I hoped a wistful mood would be endearing. He didn't respond, but his listening felt companionable as he looked at the trees, and our pace slackened. "It's a bit sad to see it neglected, no kids around playing. But I sort of like how it's been left to grow up, and how quiet it is on its own, and how the walk is cracking and disintegrating back to earth."

I saw him turn to me from the corner of my eye. "Why did you ask to walk with me?" Spoken low and blunt. Unnerving, but a relief, like he was granting me license to cut to the chase.

"Well," I began, and it was like this was exactly what I should have said all along, "I've been curious about you for a while, a long time, and I have wanted to get to know you, and now was as good a time to try as any." My face was red-hot, but the knot was loosened.

"Why would you want to know me?" A slight furrow of the brow, peeved but inquisitive.

"You're interesting. I just wanted to see if we could get to know one another, be friends, whatever. I- look, I meant no offence, and I don't want to bother you. If you want me to leave you alone, I will, with no hard feelings." I tried to be chipper in defeat.

"No. No, I was short. I apologise." My jellied knees solidified somewhat. "What is it you would like to know?" The edge was somewhat softened.

"Anything!"

"Such as?"

"Well. What do you do?"

"I'm- a teacher," with a shift of the eyes.

I grinned a silent A-ha! That would explain the tight-lipped sternness. I'd wager he's the best disciplinarian they've got. "Really? What do you teach?"

"Chemistry."

"Yes, I could see you standing by a row of beakers, looking on their contents." Too familiar. "Do you enjoy it?"

"It's an occupation." His knots are very tight, but I was working on it.

"I think it would drive me up the wall, being a teacher. You must be a patient man." I intentionally brought attention to his sex, more of the minxy business.

"It's a useful trait to develop. If it does wear thin at times."

Yes, normal people speaking of normal things. How normal, to dislike one's job. "What do you do to relax?" Practise your mystic sex powers, perhaps?

"Read, primarily." I was ready to propose on the spot.

"I enjoy reading, too," blurted like a schoolgirl. "Though I don't get as much in as I'd like." There was a wonderful gust of breeze, and I sighed inadvertently at how nice the evening felt coming in.

We walked silently for several minutes, making our second circumambulation of the small park. The air was edging on dusk. He turned to me once more. "I don't make a good friend."

"I don't either," came naturally.

"Why not?" Softly.

"I don't like people much. People don't much like me." I steadied my voice, looking ahead at a bench, mentally leaning on it. "But I like you. You don't have to be my friend. I never know what to do with friends. But if you would like someone to talk to, or walk with, I would like that."

The breeze caught his hair. He was straight and hushed; the rustle of his hair in the bluing light made me ache. He stopped at my supportive bench and sat without a word. I sat by him.

"I am often busy," he said, with more gravity than such a mundane statement ought to warrant.

"I am, too," and left it at that.

I turned to him and watched his jaw clench. "I don't want to waste your time," I said. "I don't want to burden you. I just want to know you, just a little."

He looked at me. We looked at each other. Our eyes moved. My mouth instinctively softened, and I thought of kissing him, and then of compromising and only kissing his cheek, and then I looked down at his hand resting upon his thigh and thought of taking it. I'm sure he caught me out. I'm sure he knew everything I thought of doing in that moment. I swallowed and looked away.

And then my foolish mind thought of how late it was getting, and how my father was back home and likely to be wondering where I was at, or where his supper was at.

There wasn't enough time to let things unfold as they would.

"I ought to get home soon." I spoke low, but it was still a disturbance in the dimming light. I wanted to say, Do you want to walk on by yourself, or walk me back, so I won't have to walk home alone? I didn't.

"Yes," he said, "it is getting late," and stood. I felt drained, though so little had been said, so little had occurred. "I will head back with you, if that is all right." Small mercies are sweet ones.

"Yes, please, that would be nice." I put my hands in my pockets self consciously, and we walked. The street lamps were beginning to ooze on, though full dark had not set in, and the effect of artificial and natural light colliding somehow made it seem darker, and shadows blended to blue and grey. I couldn't say whether I felt vindicated or defeated. We said nothing; there was nothing to say. Walking was enough. The light was wrong for speaking.

A car took a turn as we waited to cross to our block. I turned my face from the headlamps and saw them flash upon him, lighting him, all white and black, skin, hair, collar. We came to my door. "This is me," I said, and we stopped. The street was poorly lit, and his face was gently, darkly illuminated with the early murk of night. "Thank you for letting me walk with you. It was pleasant." I almost began to turn to my door, but stopped. "If you ever-," I stammered, "if you ever want someone to talk to, I'm right here, you know, close-by." I took his arm just below the shoulder and squeezed it with all the meaning that was lacking in my words. I held it a few seconds. So he would _know_.

His eyes were shadowed. My hand fell. "I will keep that in mind."

It's enough for me.

"I hope you have a good evening," I said. I didn't use his name. It still feels awkward in my head. I must call him Severus in my mind, secretly, silently, countless times before I will feel easy enough with it to address his true face.

"You as well," he responded. "Goodnight." And with a nod, almost a little bow of the head, reminiscent of a Regency era gent, he stepped off. I didn't stand there and wait for him to reach his house.

I went inside. I told my father I'd been out for a walk. I made our supper. I did other normal evening things. I wrote this. Now I'm going to bed, and will see if I can sleep at all.


	14. Gravitational Pull

**Gravitational Pull.**

Today he was waiting for me when I got off work. Severus. He leant against a bit of brick wall outside the shop with a slim volume in his hand, which he secreted in a pocket when he spotted my approach. My heart behaved as a violently upset hummingbird within my breast as I neared him.

"Hello again," I said. "Hoping for some free chips?" I grinned in spite of my bungled attempt at humour.

He drew his mouth into a thin smirk, which was right decent of him, given the silliness of my remark. "Would you care for company on your walk home?" he said. I wasn't expecting that, to say the least. He was as deliberate in his speech as he had been the day before, but his tone was easier, bordering on amiable.

"I would like that very much," I bit my lip in minor dismay, "but I've a couple things to drop off at the library. You are more than welcome to come with me, if it's not out of your way."

"Not at all," he said, and straightened to stand alongside me.

It was grey and overcast out, the air thick and soupy like rain was brewing. He looked becomingly frowzy and lank, like a vampire's ancient cloak left to hang in a clammy cellar. I kept that comment to myself, however, estimating the chances were slim it'd be well received. "How's the day?" I asked, feeling sprightly at my spot of luck.

"Much like any other," was his dry, but dry like a good martini, response.

I was near to bursting with girlish good cheer, having a nice ramble after work with a tall, dark gentleman, glancing over and having a good look at his stately profile, la de da. "It's good to see you again," was how I chose to convey this.

The corner of his mouth twitched up.

"I hoped we might have a walk again soon, and lo, here we are!" I swept my hands out to demonstrate that we were, in fact, here, and my arm accidentally brushed his, ever so lightly.

"Do you often visit the library?" he interjected.

"At least once a week," I said, "and more when I have the chance. I like to sit there when I've the time, and it's less occupied."

"What do you read?" We had the right makings of a conversation going here.

"Oh, mostly fiction, silly novels, nothing of any real worth." I am so awfully shy about admitting my tastes. "How about you?"

"This and that." We're a couple of enigmas bumping into one another.

"It's a nice hobby, reading," I said. "A nice diversion. More engaging than some."

"I've always found it enjoyable." Oh, strange man, what else do you enjoy?

I smiled and we said nothing more. His shoes made good, solid crunches on the pavement, unlike my cheap, rubber-soled things. We came to the library, and I held the door for him, to avoid the chance that he might not hold it for me. He didn't seem to mind, unlike some fellows I've encountered, and waltzed in natural as you please. He stood at a polite distance as I removed my books from my bag and left them at the desk. I was grateful that he didn't seem particularly interested in scoping out their titles. I wasn't returning anything especially grand and high-minded.

"Would you care to browse for a bit, or would you rather move along?" I asked.

"We might have a look around, if there's something you wish to check out." His eyes were black and sharp in the clear lighting, and a smile played about his face, if not straight upon his mouth.

"You know me too well," I said, in a bid of flirtatiousness, and made a quick downward turn of the eyelashes to accompany my grin. It is, indeed, rare that I leave the library without loaning a new book or two.

I racked my brain for something clever to look up as we headed for the stacks. I've read plenty of clever books, I suppose, but clever is relative, and I wanted to think of something up to his snuff of cleverness. He lingered a pace behind, letting me direct the way, and I walked as if I knew exactly where I was going and what I was doing.

I stopped in a tucked away area near the very back, in one of my favourite sections, housing folklore and fairy stories and books full of myth. My eyes roved along the spines, barely registering the titles. He, Severus, stepped closer. He was almost near enough to touch my shoulder, near enough that the hair's-breadth of distance could not be construed as strictly friendly. I tried to compose myself, yes, just looking about till I find something of interest, that's all, no reason to be flustered at the man looming behind me, no reason for my breath to go shallow. With trembling hand, I pulled a text from a shelf, something I'd read pieces of before, rich with fairies and magic and time lost in strange worlds. I held myself rigid, the only movement I allowed was my hands turning through pages. His breath was close. The aisle seemed narrow and pressing. My head was heavy with blood and my hands were cold. I felt like I was under a spell, enchanted like one of those lovely peasant girls in the rows of storybooks before me, who move around and do things through a sleepy haze of confusion.

I had long sheltered the fancy of one day perusing the library with a man, each of us taking turns plucking random volumes from the shelves and laughing and commenting on their contents, flirting and touching as we handled the books. To actually find myself in a situation which bore some slim semblance to that well-worn daydream gave me a mild case of vertigo, unsure how to continue. Fancies are simple to enact in the head, but become clumsy and unwieldy outside of those confines.

My frightened rabbit's instinct told me to shrink away, but my body, and my heart and its desire, told me to lean back, lean deep into him. I came to an illustration in the book, of a maiden standing in a pool, gracefully combing water from her lustrous hair, as a young man watched her from the reeds. I touched the page and turned my head slightly toward him. My breath hitched before I could speak, caught by the closeness of his face to mine.

"Pretty," I managed.

"Quite," he said, faint as a whisper.

It was too much. I felt like strings on an instrument pulled too taut. "I think I will check this one out," I said, before the strings snapped. I closed the book and swivelled sideward, quick as a flash, our eyes catching as the silver drop of the moment, that heart-rending nearness, fell away. I cleared my throat and looked to the bland expanse of beige floor.

"Right then. Shan't be a moment," I said, breezy, not like I was one tremor shy of falling into a swoon, and moved my feet away from where we stood, avoiding his face.

I floated back through the library, head fuzzy with staying conscious enough to walk upright and sure. I held my chin high and my shoulders back, so I would appear confident to the man following me, and because I felt that dreamy triumph that permeates those sweet, early moments when one anticipates a courtship.

The librarian was polite, but I scarce noticed her, making myself all mindless smiles till we were through. Severus stood looking out the window by the door. The day had gone greyer yet, and the trees were swaying.

"Looks like a storm," I said, to get his attention.

"It does," and we stepped out into it.

"Thank you," I said, "for that detour."

"Not at all." The breeze kicked up, and tickled the hair along his face. A soft, warm drizzle began to fall, blown about in gusts. I took big breaths of the lively air, and wondered what would occur next. Father would want his tea before long, but could fetch it himself if I ran late. I wouldn't have minded running late.

The wind blew at our clothes, our hair, our limbs. We looked to one another and smiled, dishevelled but enlivened by the weather. The sky rumbled with distant, muffled booming. At any moment the wind might catch us up, twist and whirl us together like loose scraps of paper.

I broke the spell after we'd walked some distance to say, "I love a storm. Feels wonderful." My voice was thin in the swish of wind on brick.

His eyes glinted toward me, as if in agreement, his face white and stark in the grey. We hadn't much longer before we would reach Spinner's End, and our houses, and nowhere further to go. I had to make something happen. "I'm glad you walked with me today," I said. "Made my day," and I stepped closer, so our arms touched, like old friends.

"It was my pleasure," he said, without flinching from the contact. "Perhaps we shall have a repeat excursion soon."

"I hope so!" How genteel we were, a couple of fine, respectable folks making our way to our derelict homes. I didn't want to leave him, go inside, do normal things. I wanted to stay out with Severus, I wanted the rain to come and fall on us, I wanted us to walk till dawn, and observe the shifting hours of the night together. I was ready to cry out with the frustration of knowing I would soon be in my own house, putting together tea in my damp clothes, with hours to spend with nothing but a book of fairy tales. I bit it down, but it bubbled within me, and when we stopped at my doorstep and faced one another, I reached across and kissed his cheek, and my lips moved down to brush the corner of his mouth before I pulled away.

His eyes were dark, impenetrable, and the lines of his brow and jaw were shadowed with an expression I could not fathom, weariness, sadness, I could not say.

"Thanks, again," I said, and took hold of the door knob, to make it quick for both our sakes. "I'll see you around, then," and in I went with a whirlwind of shy anxiety. My heart thundered as I shut the door, shutting out where my heart wanted to be. I took a ragged breath and commenced with all the things I didn't want to do.

His skin was cool, and moist with fine summer spray. I can keep this as a memory, something to long outlast this day. A memory not full of sun, but of wind and mist.


	15. Humanity

**Humanity.**

My heart is past fluttering. My head is clear.

It was near the end of my shift. I was working the counter, and saw Severus approach through the window before he came into the shop. We said hello, and he made his order. As we waited for his food to be prepared, he asked me, "Would you care for a cup of tea when you get off work?"

Naturally, I replied, "That would be lovely! I'll be through here in a few minutes."

"Very good," he said. "I shall escort you shortly, then."

He took his food to a table in a corner and unfolded a newspaper to read as he ate. Never has a chip been so interesting as when he would pick one up between two long fingers, lift it to his mouth, and chew impassively as he read.

He took his time eating, and when he was finished, continued to sit with his paper till I was done. I came round the counter to his table and offered to take his trash to the bin, and we left the shop, he holding the door for me as I untied my apron.

It was very hot and bright out. He asked how my day had been, and I asked how his day had been, and both our days had been approximately average. I was terribly glad to see him again. Terribly glad he hadn't decided to avoid me after the other day. It didn't take long for the throat to go dry and the brow to form beads of sweat walking in that heat. And I'd been working, so I wasn't at my freshest, but I wasn't going to ask for a break to wash up and change my clothes and risk his taking tea without me.

We spoke of the weather and shared a mutual disdain for excessive sunshine. All things in moderation. We walked to his house, and he invited me into his sitting room.

"Please, come in. Have a seat." Such sweet words.

He gestured to a couch, and I sat as he went into the kitchen. His furniture was shabbier even than ours, but I'm not one of those girls with a fever for home decorating. There are finer things to fill a house with. Books, for instance. He wasn't fibbing when he said he enjoyed reading. Books, books, stacks of books. I wish I had space, and funds, to amass such a gorgeous collection.

I listened as he ran the tap and put the kettle on. He came to the doorway and asked, "Do you take milk?"

"Yes, please." Sometimes I even like to have a little tea with my milk, hah hah.

He stepped back to the kitchen. I looked at my hands in my lap, switching between holding them flat on my thighs, folding them in various demure positions, and pressing them between my knees, and wondered if I should shout a little conversation between rooms. But he wasn't long in coming out with a tray, and setting out and pouring our mismatched cups. He sat by me, and we drank. The tea was delicious, robust enough you could chew it.

"Excellent tea," I said, thankful to have something solid to grip onto and occupy myself with as we shared the small couch.

"Thank you," he said with satisfaction. "I prefer a strong, sustaining cup."

I took another sip. "Your collection is beautiful. Of books, I mean. Must have taken you years to put together."

"Yes, I have been accumulating them since I had the means to do so. There are always more books to be had."

"How true! I'm afraid I must rely on the library, though; I can't afford to get all the books I would like!" I laughed nervously, embarrassed to have brought up finances.

"Perhaps one day you shall," he replied, lifting his cup to his lips.

"Oh, I don't know about that," I said, unsure what to make of his remark. "I may be working at that fish-and-chip shop for the rest of my natural life!" The exclamation point so as not to seem despondent.

"Possessions are not everything."

"That is certainly true. I don't mind going to the library for my books. I'm really quite content with what I have."

"That is a refreshing sentiment. So many young ladies seem to be in a constant state of material discomfiture."

I laughed. "I try to save my discomfit for more pressing matters."

"A wise course of action, to be sure," he said with a smirk.

We were growing cosy with tea and talk. I let my posture loosen so that I sat more naturally against the couch, and he crossed his legs casually.

"This is nice," I said, after we'd settled ourselves comfortably. "I usually have my tea alone. I bring my father a cup to his room, but he prefers the company of the television, and I'd as soon drink mine by myself as with that racket. It's nice to sit and have a civilised chat with someone other than myself for a change."

"And do you often have civilised chats with yourself?" he asked, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

"Oh, all the time! There are astoundingly few other people I'd rather speak with, frankly."

He laughed, a quick, sharp thing. I took a haughty sip from my cup to complete the statement, and flushed with pleasure at his response.

He offered to replenish my tea, and we calmed into our fresh cups for a few swallows. I wondered why I was here, why he invited me, what would happen, whether _anything_ would happen. My drab brain also envisioned my father back at the house, grumbling down the stairs to brew his own tea when he saw I would be late, such a creature of habit, and I considered what excuse I would make to him.

"Deirdre," he interrupted my thoughts. "May I ask you a personal question?" Release the butterflies into my gut.

"Of course," I said, instinctively hesitant, but burning with curiosity at what he would want to know.

"Are you.. a sociable person?"

"No," I answered. "I'm not, really."

He was silent a moment, looking ahead at the far wall of books. "Neither am I."

I put my cup on the table. "I'm bad at this," I said, as he looked toward me. "I say so much to myself I don't know what to say to someone else."

He placed his cup by mine. His jaw was tight, and I regretted the loss of the ease of a few moments ago.

I inched closer to him. "I don't know how to act, I don't know what to say." I pressed my brow to his upper arm, hiding my face in his sleeve, and shook my head. "I don't know how to do this properly."

He sat stiffly, but did not move away, or shove me off. I grew tranquil, noiselessly propped against him, knots loosening. My breath steadied, my eyes pressed heavily against their lids.

After who knows how much time had elapsed in that awkward, serene state, he said, "I must tell you that I am not in a position to pursue an ordinary relationship."

"Are you married?"

A hint of a flinch. "No."

I edged in closer, so our thighs touched, and moved my face to his shoulder, and slipped my arm through his. "Why not, then?"

He leant back into the couch, adjusting to my movements, but not participating. "There are many demands placed on me by my career. I am away most of the year, and too busy to maintain intimate acquaintances." I nestled deeper, calmed by the resonant sound of his voice against my cheek, despite what he said.

"We don't have to have an ordinary relationship," I said, and slid my hand onto his, where it rested upon his thigh. "I've never known how to go about those, anyhow." I ran a fingertip along the edges of his fingers, and he took up my hand with a gentle squeeze.

His hand and mine played those little games and tricks that they will, like two children, as we sat perfectly still and watched. They would entwine this way and that, meet here, dance there, take turns tracing the other, embrace. Sometimes my eyes would close languidly, as if I might at any moment fall into a perfect, dreamless sleep in the rise and fall of his breathing chest.

"I cannot give you the attention you deserve," he said finally.

"I'll settle for what I can get," and I wrapped my other arm around him, and brought my face to his neck.

"You must understand," he said, low, unwavering, "that anything... between us must remain discreet."

"Vows of celibacy?" I asked, nuzzling.

He chuckled, a deep, delicious vibration in his throat. "Not quite, but the institution at which I am employed is rather, ah, old fashioned." He pressed his cheek to the top of my head. "My superiors have a keen eye for moral decency, and do not look kindly on too much, hm, open dalliance in their staff." The last with an audible smirk to it, as he relaxed into my ministrations. "I prefer to avoid providing them with fodder for controversy. I like my private life to _remain_ private. _Quite_ private, if you understand me."

"Perfectly," I spoke into his neck. "Your business is your business, my business is mine, and sometimes our business might," I gave him a nibble, "coincide, behind the privacy of closed doors. I don't mind a little cloak-and-dagger stuff. Would you like to bring the dagger, or shall I? Sounds quite naughty!"

"We'll see what can be arranged," and he moved to bring his arms around me, and I shifted myself to allow it, and then we were holding each other. We were still for a time, the pulses of our bodies becoming acquainted, breaths slow, deep. His hair smelt salty, of sweat, of skin, like the sea. I lifted my face from where it rested against his shoulder and looked up at him drowsily. His eyes met mine, and I put my lips to his jaw, then the side of his mouth, then our lips met, soft as dandelion seeds. He kissed me. There are so many ways a kiss will grow and shift and change, for such a small thing that it is. His mouth was faintly bitter with tannin, lips sweetened with traces of souring milk. He slid his hand around from my back to rest against the side of my ribcage, just under the breast, where there is a lever marked: "Melt Instantly." I snuffled lustily, and pressed myself closer, and kissed harder.

We moved in that way of two people coming close for the first time, fluid yet choppy, like ocean waves. I lowered my mouth to his neck. He moved a hand to my hip, and squeezed the soft flesh. I loosed a button of his shirt and touched the exposed skin as I kissed the hollow of his throat. I was swimming, swimming, we were carried by the sea. His other hand slid to my breast as I returned to his mouth, and finished blindly, clumsily unbuttoning his shirt. I parted the fabric, and laid my hands upon his torso. I pulled away from the kiss to look at his body, the pale expanse of thin, taut skin, and breathed, "You're beautiful."

His eyes were dark, cheeks flushed with colour as I'm sure my own were. I took my hands away to pull off my blouse, and we kissed again, hands roving over each other. I giggled when he tickled, brushing too lightly over sensitive spots. I leant back to remove my bra, and he held my breasts, and we looked into each other, breathing heavily. I took his face into my hands and kissed him deeply, and ran my hands along to the back of his neck, fingers lost in his hair, damp and sticky with sweat where it clung to his skin.

His hands slid from my breasts, across my ribs to my back, and ran over my shoulder blades, into my hair. He reclined across the couch, holding me to him, whispers between us as we adjusted ourselves, and I was atop him, one of his long legs on the couch, bent at the knee, the other on the floor, me in between. It was cramped, but in the loveliest way two people can be cramped.

Neither of us had a ready form of birth control, but that's nothing to stand in the way of a practised imagination. It's difficult to describe events without it coming out like a trashy novel. Things continued in a predictable vein on that shabby little couch in that stuffy little parlour, hazy with late afternoon light filtering through the tatty curtains. Heat and delirium. Grasping at rough fabric, finding skin. Too little oxygen, too much, blood heavy, head light. Breath caught, exhaled. Teasing, tender hands. How different our flesh, how much the same. The timeless struggle, etc. etc.

We separated wordlessly; nothing needed saying. Severus stood and headed to the kitchen, and I stretched myself out over the couch like a spoilt cat. The tap ran a moment, and he returned, leaning naked against the doorframe, and I gazed unabashedly as the water he'd splashed over his face ran down his chest, catching on the wiry black hairs, a ray of brilliant golden light from the setting sun stealing through the kitchen window illuminating the sheen of sweat on his pale skin, catching on an inflamed, angry-looking pimple on his bony shoulder. He ran his hand over his wet face, and I glanced at the discarded tea things and laughed to myself. Here we were, England's own Adam and Eve.

We dressed in companionable silence, without it occurring to me to ask if there might be a repeat encounter. I was finished before he, and asked if I might do up the buttons of his shirt, which he willingly submitted to. He looked at me as I took my pleasure of this activity and said, "I shall have to leave by the end of next month." Yes. August, and then September, and school for the kiddies.

I nodded with a vague, "Mmm," as I took my time on the last two buttons.

"I thought you should know," he continued. "As I told you, I have little opportunity for developing acquaintances."

I fumbled with his cuffs, and took his hand, his fine, well-formed hand, senses blackening with the threat that I might not have another chance to hold it. "Of course, I understand. I'm not here to be a bother to you. You have your duties to attend to, I have mine. That fact has been established." I smiled and put my hands around his waist. "But I certainly had a nice time today."

"As did I." His eyes could penetrate my skull, so intense and indecipherable. "But Deirdre, I still have these few weeks. If you have the time and the inclination, it would bring me great pleasure if we might continue our association whilst I am here." I drew myself closer in response, and snuggled into an embrace, which he warmly reciprocated. "We are each, I think, capable of respecting the other's space and as such, may appreciate companionship without imposition." He ran his hand through my hair, fingers catching on the tangles. He said no more, but I wondered if there was something further, halted before it could reach his lips. I did not ask, but sighed from deep in my bones and stood straight.

"I'm happy to have a little company, and you make nice company." I gave his bottom a playful pat, eliciting a grin. "I try to avoid arousing my father's suspicions, but otherwise I'm not a demanding girl. I like a little walk, a little talk, maybe a little spooning from time to time..." A few kisses exchanged. "Really quite easy to please." A few more.

The day was waning dangerously, and there was a cooker down the road waiting to get down to business with a pan, and a probably by now quite cranky man waiting for the results. Goodbyes are strange and dreadful things in this kind of beginning, so I shan't detail it. We arranged to meet again the next afternoon in much the same way, and I dragged myself out of the house of the most unusual, delicious, dark and uncanny Severus, and returned to my humble abode, where I told my father I had been visiting the home of a female friend from work, and that the next day I would be visiting her again. He seemed well enough convinced, even pleased, that I was making a friend. After speedily clearing up the kitchen and locking up for the night, I holed myself in my room to write this, and will now, though wide awake, take to my bed, to toss and turn in contented restlessness.


	16. Name

**Name.**

It's funny that the name Severus still feels strange on my lips, but within a short space of time his body and mine fell into the swing of our clumsy intimacy without the shyness and timidity I thought were the basis of romance in my younger days. Is it a sign of maturity that I cling less to a name (the better to whisper beneath my breath alone at night, and doodle in secret notebooks), in favour of the easy nudity between two adults? Or is it yet another psychological issue I haven't the term for?

He seems to have no trouble with "Deirdre," but I seem to address him chiefly as "you" to his face and "him" to myself. I've seen him in his natural state, and his sweat has mixed with mine. I've tasted him, touched him, marked him with my scent, and been marked in return. Do these things transcend names, or is it unhealthy that my thoughts of him, and my actions with him, are not especially attached to a name? I don't go about thinking of myself like, "Deirdre is doing this, Deirdre is doing that." I think, "_I_ am doing this. _I_ am doing that." It's _me_, not just Deirdre. It's _he_, not just Severus.

They're a funny couple of names, besides. Deirdre is all gloom and rainy days, and Severus is all sex dungeons and Roman orgies. I'd be curious where his mother pulled that one from.

It's my break, and this is what I ponder instead of having something to eat. I know I should, so I will be fueled up for later (ha!), and so my stomach won't make embarrassing noises, but I haven't the appetite for food. I've been nourished with other sustenance, closer to nectar than anything solid. An internal feast, with much for my heart to chew upon. Calm and eager, anxious and serene, I await my appointed time, like a bride, like a condemned man.

Would it be a bad idea to slip in a remark about Roman orgies later, I wonder?


	17. Sugar

**Sugar.**

It is a damned shame that our society is set up as it is, and I am forced to seek employment in food service, when obviously I am much better suited to spending my time in the act of love than handling polystyrene boxes of fish.

But I don't suppose it worked for Rome (or not indefinitely, at least), so I don't suppose it shall work for me.

I am not a hummingbird, after all, and I need more than this sweet nectar to live.

But oh, it is _so_ sweet.

There is a dull, throbbing happiness deep in my middle, warm and heavy. That is where I hold my secret, where it gestates out of sight of prying eyes. I've done something no one knows of, I've had pleasures no one who sees me would suspect. It burns on as I do my work, and come home, and play the game of normal life, and no one is any the wiser.

Cloak and dagger indeed. At the end of my shift, I walked to the park where we had arranged to meet for a stroll. Foreplay. He sat on the bench under the largest, shadiest tree, reading a book. Dreams do come true. He lifted his head while I was some distance away, and lowered his book to watch my approach. I sat by him, not too close. No one was about, but we were nonetheless polite in our greetings, not too warm or familiar, no touching or suggestive smiles. Well behaved. I kept my eyes low, upon his hands wrapped around the book in his lap. The front was plain and unmarked, and I could not determine its title, but it looked old, serious.

The pleasantries over with, we stood and walked. I put my hands in my pockets to contain my nerves, measured my tone with practised nonchalance and asked, "Were you able to get ahold of Johnny?"

A flicker of thoughtful hesitation, then, "Yes, this morning. He's doing well." Not a trace of humour, bless the man. We were of course referencing the agreement that we must get our hands on some contraceptives, which he offered to do ASAP. I felt a tingle of excitement shimmy up my spine.

"I'm glad to hear it." Conversational subterfuge is a lark. "I look forward to seeing him later." To be sure.

"He sends his regards." We glanced at one another, eyes meeting, the amusement between us so subtle and controlled no passerby would have detected it.

Serene in the knowledge that I would be getting mine, I took a moment to admire my surroundings. The greenery was hyper-real, more lush to my eyes than it had any right to be, like I was walking through an idyllic painting. I breathed deeply, oxygen rich in my veins, and felt thoroughly alive, and happy to be so. We walked, speaking of nothing of consequence. Consequence would come soon enough.

We did not move with haste to his house, but it pressed our steps until we arrived at his door. We went inside and skipped the tea. We were rough with our clothes, grappling to be free of them. His skin. He smelled of summer, of faint sweat and heat deep in the skin. That smell, it is now my favourite in the world. And his taste. My mouth upon him, running along the curves and angles, a thin brine collecting on my lips. Pulling, pulling, we fell with hungry grace to the floor of his parlour. And that moment, when he was first within me, and I was of him, and we were a single creation, fulfilling our design, this coupling into one, and then back to ourselves, to individual efforts, individual movements, blending. More sweat. His breath, mine. A tingling, almost a numbness, starting from finger-and-toetips, spreading down my limbs, which moved but were forgotten as the heat built in the centre of me, my heart, my belly- flushed and quickening. I was made for this.

We separated, and after a moment to recover his breath he said, "One of these days we will have to make it past the sitting room." I laughed and he kissed my neck.

"One of these days I will have to come to you bathed and fresh. I'm always grimy from the shop. You must think me a filthy ragamuffin. I don't really smell of cooking oil all the time, honest."

"I don't mind. You smell savoury- all you need is to be dipped in sauce and bitten into." At my neck once more, with a nibble.

A few minutes of a wordless conversation of soft giggles and kisses. Then I leant up on my elbows to look down on him and said, "You know, I haven't even asked your surname. Do I not have the most atrocious manners?"

He chuckled and ruffled my hair. "Unpardonable. It's Snape."

"Severus Snape. Ess, Ess. Ssss, like a snake." I buried my nose in his neck, slithering lusty and playful as a serpent against him. "Much more interesting than mine. Audley," with an appropriately dolorous drone.

"It has a respectable air," and he diplomatically gave my bottom a squeeze.

Never have I had so much fun on the floor. We were in a place beyond time for a moment, but it passed quickly, more quickly than ordinary time, hummingbird's wings. I returned home late enough for my father to be agitated, though I'd told him I'd be out, but it had not been nearly enough time for me. There cannot be enough time for me when I am in that place, that time. With him.


End file.
